Clint
The morning was introduced to me by the glimmering light escaping from the folds of the heavy drapes that shrouded the window of my room. For a moment I was unable to collect my lazy thoughts and believed that I was back in my bed at SHIELD. I rolled over letting out a low groan when the light hit my face. I yawned stretching and arching my back while trying to untangle my legs from the tendrils of fabric that had managed to weave their way around my calfs as I slept. As I continued to try to convince myself to get up, the rattle of chains from across the room jolted me from my stupor. Like a montage, the events from yesterday came flooding back to me leaving me with the indecision of the previous night but renewed tenfold. My illusion of safe dropped like a curtain and again I had to throw up my shield. I slowly sat up in my bed and just as I had feared, the redhead girl sat where I had left her, head bowed.
"Damn."
As I moved to place my feet on the ground, she raised her gaze to meet mine, proving that her lowered eyes were purely for respect. My feet made a small thump on the carpeted floor and her eyes followed my every movement. I couldn't handle the silence full of implications and accusations that could assault even the most ignorant person.
"Morning," I ventured, offering the greeting in her direction. I was hoping that maybe the extension of a warm welcome would serve to remind her that despite the circumstances, I had made the kindest choice I could.
She didn't respond to my words and instead maintained her fixated green eyes on me. She sat crosslegged on the ground but her posture wasn't confrontational, it was respectful and somewhat reverent.
I couldn't help but let another yawn escaped my mouth. Unlike the general crowd she didn't respond to the contagiousy of my yawn, keeping herself unmoving as always. I didn't even make an effort to stunt the chuckle that rose in my throat at her inhuman focus. My humor elicited a small expression of confusion from her and I could see that behind the emotion was a guilt that leaked through in her idiosyncratic bite of the lower lip. I furrowed my eyebrows in initial confusion letting my eyes drift, but my wondering was put to rest by the round of live ammunition next to my foot. I looked at her and back at the round letting myself slowly lean to pick it up, wary of the possibility of a trap. I turned over the cold metal in my hand, feeling the bumps on its surface. Slowly, my eyes wandered up to the shelf above the woman's head and as expected the gun, too, was missing from its original position. As I lowered my gaze, the flicker of motion from a moving hand caught my eye and like the great reveal in a theatrical production she held out her hand as far as the chains would allow, revealing the gun, held by the muzzle. She placed it on the ground and gave it a soft shove with her foot, sending the slick metal sliding across the woolen carpet to rest perfectly before my feet. Upon safe delivery of her package, her eyes flicked back to my face. She opened both her palms behind her and make no effort to conceal anything. I couldn't understand why she would make an offer like this when she has obviously had the chance to end me and escape without any difficulty. Judging by the indents on her palm, she had had the gun within her fingers for several hours if not more. The ammunition wouldn't have just fallen out of the gun. She had no excuse for sparing me. At least from an assassin's perspective. Fortunately she wasn't an everyday assassin; this was a peace treaty.
Ignoring my cautious side, I walked forwards and sat in front of her. Our eyes met and within the complex depths of her green eyes and the monotonous blue of mine, a mutual understanding was agreed upon.
"You're a Russian assassin and spy, responsible for hundreds of deaths including several SHIELD representatives. You were trained under the Black Widow program hence your name. You're right to assume I'm here to kill you but chance are you've also realized by now that that's not going to happen. Any objections?"
She stayed silent acknowledging my statements and short debrief.
"Good. I'm really sorry but I'm not entirely willing to risk taking off your handcuffs so we'll have to do this like this. I'm Clint Barton...what's your name? I-I mean other than 'Black Widow'. "
She pursed her lips and for the better part of a minute I thought she wouldn't respond, but slowly her lips parted and formed two words.
"Romanoff, Natasha."
She looked ashamed that she had answered my question but I couldn't help but crack a smile at her answer. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow, but no longer was there a frown on her face but a slightly less depressing acceptance of reality.
A/N Hi everyone and sorry for the short chapter but I didn't want to go too far into this scene without getting some input from Natasha's POV. Right now we're exploring aspects of Clint's personality and how he deals with situations like this. He's obviously pretty forgiving and I feel like that might come from within his past a little more regarding the punishments for pent up anger in his childhood family.
Anyways, I also have no excuse for posting this late...I guess I was trying to think of something to make this longer but I couldn't come up with anything and now I was a bit busy learning ASL to sort of honour Barton and get a rounded education about the language.
YAY 200 reads!! Thanks guys!
Hope you liked the chapter!
If you would like a dedication just comment or message and ask :)
Today's dedication goes to: consultingmoonwalker (I love their book "The Assistant Headmaster")
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Different Call (Clintasha)
Fanfiction“Kill me, do it! The world doesn’t deserve me so finish your mission and end me!” The tears were now flowing down her face. I dropped the gun further from the sobbing girl. “No."
